


In the Fullness of Time

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Chubby Kink, Crowley is a chubby chaser, M/M, Stuffing, Weight Gain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:21:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23043181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Crowley feeds up Aziraphale over the centuries.Note: this is a fetish fic. Read the tags!!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 286
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

The first time Crowley noticed that Aziraphale had put on weight was something of a revelation.

It was in Rome, and all of those oysters and olive oil and doormice and wine had caught up with the angel, and Crowley couldn’t help but notice a definite curve under that toga, a softness under the chin that hadn’t been there in previous millennia, he was sure of it.

This stunned him. It wasn’t that he didn’t know that Aziraphale was something of a gourmand - perhaps even a bit of a glutton - but he was an angel! Angel’s didn’t gain weight. Angels could look however they pleased. Aziraphale could get rid of that gut with a snap of his fingers - but he hadn’t. And, Crowley realized as he watched him tip back the last oyster into his mouth and then sit back with a sigh of repletion, he wasn’t going to.

Why?

There could only be one reason. 

He liked it.

The angel had let himself get fat because he wanted to do it, because he liked being fat, and Crowley ...

Crowley liked it too. Liked it very much, in fact.

The demon’s eyes grew wide behind the lenses of dark glasses. “Another round, angel?” He asked, already raising a hand for the serving girl. “Some more of those oysters?”

”Oh,” the angel said, flushing prettily, and one hand fell to the pronounced curve of his new belly under robe. “Well ... how can I refuse?”

Crowley smiled.

See, these were the sins he liked best. The ones that didn’t really hurt anyone. Sloth, luxury, a capitulation to harmless indulgence. His soft angel was made for it; how could he not spoil him in every way?

And so it became a thing for him. Whenever they’d get together, they’d find themselves in a tavern or a mead hall, and Aziraphale would be eager to try all the local delicacies, many times over, and wine would flow, and Crowley would watch behind his glasses and Aziraphale became more and more overfull and more and more inebriated. And just when the angel would be ready to declare himself satisfied, Crowley would murmur, “Wouldn’t you fancy a little more of that mutton?” Or “That cake looks very good.” Or “Surely you can handle a little more of these delightful pastries, angel. Who knows when you’ll be back to this little inn again?” Aziraphale would bluster and demure and then succumb quite easily, and stuff himself to bursting. It was astoundingly easy.

The effects were marvelous. There was something about the sight of the Guardian of the Eastern Gate, eyes glassy and half lidded, face flushed, slumped in a chair and soothing his hugely distended belly as it pressed against his straining robe, or tunic, or doublet, struggling to fit in another morsel of cheese or another piece of pie, and all the way making those little sighs of pleasure and appreciation. Crowley wanted to tell him how beautiful he looked, lost to temptation like this. He wanted to reach out and help smooth that overtaxed stomach. He wanted to praise him and encourage him even more boldly. He wanted to feed him with his own hand, press bite after bite into his lush, open mouth until Aziraphale could barely keep up with the pace.

By the time their meetings came to a close, Aziraphale would be almost insensible with the excess of food and drink, and Crowley would have to escort him to lodgings and put him to bed. What he would have given to crawl in beside him and caress him, but he couldn’t. Instead he’d make sure he was safely abed before trudging off to his own rooms, ablaze with lust, and take himself in hand.

As the centuries went by Aziraphale grew rounder and rounder, and Crowley fell deeper and deeper in love with him. The angel never seemed to notice Crowley’s fascination with his form, or give any inkling about the little game he was playing, unwittingly, with the demon. He let Crowley wine him and dine throughout the 17th, 18th, and part of the 19th centuries - until their fight led to a break in their acquaintance. When they struck yo their friendship again in the 1940s, Crowley was aghast to see the angel had slimmed down a lot, looking practically wan. He wasn’t sure if it was due to his absence or wartime rationing, but he went right to work setting things back to normal, and within a few decades Aziraphale was as plump as ever. 

Then the apocalypse came. 

It was hard to focus on the finer things in life when the end of the world was nigh, but at the same time it was nice to remind oneself of everything one was fighting not to lose. That was what Aziraphale often said, and Crowley agreed, though in the angel’s case he meant gorging himself on delicacies and in Crowley’s he meant watching said gorging.

He grew bolder, pushing Aziraphale more recklessly to have a little more, just finish this plate, or try another one, or how about this flavor, or another? Many nights ended in the back of the bookshop, the two drinking many bottles of wine and Aziraphale sampling many boxes of chocolates or delightful little cakes that Crowley brought by. Sometimes, when Crowley would hand over one of his little offerings, Aziraphale would hold his gaze in an almost knowing way, but it could only be his imagination.

”I simply can’t manage another bite,” Aziraphale gasped, sinking even lower in his chair. His belly was mounded up in front of him, perfectly round, and the buttons on his waistcoat were straining.

”It’s barely a bite,” Crowley stated, eyeing the four Napoleons which were rather more than a bite — more like a few dozen bites. 

”There’s no room,” Aziraphale said in a breathless way, and squeezed his enormous belly. “Look at my waistcoat. Look at my trousers!”

Crowley couldn’t not look. Both offending garments were digging into his angel’s poor belly cruelly. The next words came out of his mouth before he could stop himself. “Unbutton ‘em.”

Aziraphale’s eyes grew wide. “What?” He said. He licked his lips, and his hands unconsciously traveled up to the apex of round stomach and stroked the fastening of his trousers.

Crowley’s mouth went dry. He should walk this back, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. “If it hurts, unbutton them.”

Aziraphale’s face grew beet red, and then his eyes fell to the delicious pastries, and he licked his lips again. There was a “pop” noise then, and Crowley watched in disbelief as the angel opened his trousers, letting out a sigh of relief as his straining, bloated stomach was relieved. Then he unbuttoned his waistcoat and his shirt, and suddenly the object of Crowley’s intense fantasies for two thousands years was right there in front of him: Aziraphale’s immense, distended white belly, ringed with stretch marks, engorged with food.

The angel sighed and massaged it. “That’s better,” he sighed, and reached, with some difficulty around his big belly, for the pastries. Crowley watched in mute wonder as he devoured them one by one, licking his lips and moaning and hiccuping for lack of room, then sat back with a groan of pleasure. His stomach looked like it might explode. He wanted to worship it, shower with kisses, and fill it even more.

”I have to go,” he croaked, standing stiffly. 

Aziraphale smiled lazily. He was stroking the immense orb of stomach, pressing occasionally into it, and the sight was driving Crowley out of his mind. “Thank you for dessert, dear boy,” he said.

And then Crowley left, feeling as though he might be going insane.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale keeps touching him. All through the bus ride home from Tadfield, the night in his flat, on the bench in St James’ Park after the switch, and now at the Ritz. He squeezes his shoulder, brushes their hands together, even leans against his side. Crowley is going to combust.

Now, as they sit at their celebratory dinner, drinking glass after glass of champagne, and Aziraphale eats course after course of fine food, Crowley feels the angel’s foot slide along his calf. He glances at Aziraphale over the top of his shades. The angel is replete, rosy faced, one hand on his bulging stomach, the other bring forkfuls of cake to his mouth. He meets Crowley’s gaze head on, eyes half lidded and smoldering.

It’s happening, Crowley realizes. After all these years ... part of him still couldn’t imagine that Aziraphale knows and understands. How can he? But he must. There is no other explanation.

Aziraphale let’s the fork fall from his fingers to the empty plate. “Ahhh,” he says, and grips his round belly and shakes it. “That was quite marvelous.”

Crowley’s mouth is dry. “Want to get out of here?”

Aziraphale beans. “Drinks at mine?”

”Of course.” Crowley gestures for the waiter to come, and while he sorts out the sizeable bill and Aziraphale distracts himself soothing his overful stomach, inspiration strikes and he whispers one last request to the waiter. Then there is the matter of easing Aziraphale from his seat and out of the restaurant, into the Bentley - no easy task when he is this stuffed. The waiter meets him outside with a large white box, which Crowley dries in the back. When he finally gets in behind the wheel, his brain almost short circuits, because Aziraphale has opened the fastening of his trousers and is caressing his bare, bloated belly, his eyes closed and his mouth open in pleasure. Right there! Parked outside the Ritz.

”You all right, angel?” He asks, his voice more gravelly than usual. He starts the car, thinking that he must get them back immediateLy, or this Bentley might burst into flames, too.

”Spiffing,” Aziraphale says, and runs a hand up inside the right confines of his shirt and waistcoat to stroke the crest of his magnificent, well stretched tummy. He groans, deeply.

Crowley swallows hard and races them back to the bookshop. When they pull up front, he is witness to the astounding sight of Aziraphale fruitlessly attempting to rebutton his trousers. But that tremendous beast resists any attempts at containment now that it is free. Crowley eventually convinces him it’s fine to get out of the car in his present state - Crowley will make sure no one sees. Then he helps Aziraphale inside, the other lurching and moaning and panting, and settles him On the couch in the back room. He runs back out to the car to retrieve his box, hoping he’s read the room correctly, and when he returns, the angel has his feet up, his waistcoat and shirt spread open, and his engorged stomach on display, churning with the enormous meal inside of him. He looks at the box in Crowley’s hands and smiles. “Now what is that? You devil. I didn’t even notice.”

Crowley opens the box. Inside is a whole chocolate cake, laden with berries and chocolate shards, heavy and rich and sinful. “You don’t need to eat if you don’t want to,” Crowley insists, though all he wants is to see if he can fit the entire thing inside that bursting belly.

Aziraphale’s head falls back. “Cut me a slice,” he says simply.

Crowley does as he is told. But Aziraphale doesn’t reach for the plate when it is handed to him. He looks Crowley straight in the eye as though his glasses weren’t there and then he opens his mouth, waiting, expectant.

Shaking, Crowley sits next to him, loads up the form with cake, and brings it into Aziraphale’s open mouth. The sound he makes as he closes his lips around the fork is pornographic. Crowley realizes he is whining with each exhalation. He feeds Aziraphale another bite and another. Soon the plate is empty, but Aziraphale’s mouth is still open. So Crowley gets another slice. As he feeds him, Aziraphale’s roam over his immense belly, which surely must be aching. Crowley’s eyes are drawn to it, the taut, straining skin, the jagged stretch marks. When the second slice is gone, before he can get another one, Aziraphale grabs his hand and brings it the enormous pale dome. He’s touching it. He is stroking Aziraphale’s gut, and it’s hard and soft at the same time. Aziraphale is sighing and groaning, murmuring that he’s so full, but he wants more. “Help me Crowley,” he whines, and Crowley soothes and runs the poor overburdened belly, absolutely intoxicated by the entire experience. Together they coax the angel’s glutted organ to relax and soften, and then Aziraphale is begging for more. Crowley feeds him a third slice and then a fourth. By then the angel is gasping for air, arching his back, fuller than Crowley has ever seen him. “Need to lay down,” he whimpers, and Crowley snaps his fingers and the couch beneath realizes it should really be a bed. Crowley eases Aziraphale into his back, where he is cushioned on a pile of pillows that suddenly exist. When he sits up to get more cake, the angel looks utterly massive, all belly, like he’s well overdue with twins. Crowley has helped him to get so fat.

With a great deal of effort, they manage to force slice after slice into that overtaxed stomach. Aziraphale is incoherent with fullness, his mumbles a revolving current of “so full”, and “help” and “more”. They massage the boulder of his expanding gut, pushing belch after belch from him until they all turn to weak hiccups. Soon there only one slice of cake left and Crowley feeds it it him breathlessly, whispering encouragement.

And then he’s finished.

Crowley sits back, observing the fruits of his labor. Aziraphale is a hiccuping, writhing, overwhelmed mess. He is so heavy and full that he can’t even arch his back now. He is pinned to the couch-turned-bed by his gluttonous, immense belly. The flesh of his stomach is pink with strain, and when Crowley presses his fingers to it, little white marks appear and Aziraphale squeaks.

”Are you satisfied, angel?” He asks. “Was this what you wanted?”

Aziraphale noods, dumbly. He licks his lips. “Love you, Crowley.”

Crowley’s eyes widen. “I ... I love you too, angel.”

Aziraphale smiles lazily, content. Then he drifts off to sleep. 

Crowley places a shaking hand on that beautiful belly. His mind is awash with visions of the future. He will make sure his angel is always full, always satisfied. He will feed him until he can’t move. Until he grows so plump that he can’t wear those ridiculous suits, till the Bentley groans under his weight. Then he’ll have stern words with them until they behave themselves and fit his fat angel perfectly again. And then Crowley will make him even fatter.

They had all the time in the world after all.


End file.
